


Neverland

by Fauna96



Series: Other Places [1]
Category: Bartimaeus - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: Children used as dealers, Gangs, Gen, Human traffic also?, and prostitution, but it's all very light and brief, mentions of drug dealing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-09-26 07:44:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9874118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fauna96/pseuds/Fauna96
Summary: Queezle is twelve years old and paralyzed by fear. She has hidden in her pocket a clasp knife and wishes she had enough bravery for use it; but Bart ordered her to run and he did with a serious serious voice that she could just obey, holding to her chest the plastic bag.





	1. I Part

**Author's Note:**

> Any mistake is my fault (English is not my first language)

Queezle is twelve years old and paralyzed by fear. She has hidden in her pocket a clasp knife and wishes she had enough bravery for use it; but Bart ordered her to run and he did with a serious serious voice that she could just obey, holding to her chest the plastic bag. She didn’t go far, though, she doesn’t want to leave him alone while they’re beating him up; she stays hidden and struggles to not cry, until she feels a hand brushing against her shoulder. She turns around and has to hold back a cry of relief in seeing Bartimaeus’ bloody but undoubtedly alive face. She lets the bag fall and throws herself on him; Bart groans and she loosens immediately the grasp. – Sorry. Does it hurt you a lot? –

The boy waves heedlessly and pats her head. – Nothing particular, Queezle – he makes her a cracked lips grin. – There are few that could really knock me down –

They stay for a while clung to each other in the dark alley, surrounded by trash cans and by the noises of the night traffic, then Queezle says: - For me this time we should go to the doctor -.

Bartimaeus snorts, picks up the bag and tucks half of it in his trousers, covering it with the jacket. – No, Queezle. I’m fine, blondie, ok? I am Bartimaeus – he lifts an eyebrow looking polemic and Queezle nods uncertainly. – Don’t make that face! War wounds are always more talk than trousers. And these aren’t even comparable to that time which... –

\- Madame will have a look at you anyway – Queezle interrupts him, because she doesn’t want to listen to another great Bartimaeus’ venture, as much as she’s fond of him.

Bartimaeus looks vaguely insulted for being interrupted, then however seems to be taken by a more important thought; he passes an arm around her shoulders and leads her to the street. – Let’s go -.

 

In the first nights, Queezle sobbed long before she could sleep, until the child that divided with her that box-room told her to dump it or the guy outside the door would have shot her. Queezle freezed, terrified, and the kid added after a while, perhaps feeling sorry for his toughness: - I was joking. Really: at most of all, he starts to whine with you. And anyway, they all have an awful aim –

He spoke Czech with a very strange accent, even if in a loose way, and had light eyes, almost yellow, that looked like a cat’s. He wasn’t exactly kind, but Queezle started to find him nice. There were other children, but she saw them few times; her constant company was Bartimaeus, who seemed to have taken the task of teaching her how the things worked there. All the teachings he gave her, however, were neglected by himself: he recommended her to shut up and not get into trouble and without fail he fooled, gave mean retorts (Queezle wondered many times how a kid little older than her would know so many curses and insults) and he took all the punishments of the situation. He had constantly a swollen jaw, bruises on his face and arms, nevertheless Queezle didn’t see him cry even once. And she struggled too to push back the tears, especially when she felt homesick.

Bartimaeus missed his home as well: when he was in the right mood, he told her about the desert, about the coloured markets called _suq,_ about the red-hot air wrapping his city. But they were rare occasions: Bart didn’t like speaking about himself. Actually, he liked it rather, he adored speaking about himself, but not about personal facts. He was like this.

 

\- Bart – he turns, his hands in the pockets of the jeans. He’s tall for his fourteen years and promises to grow even more. Queezle rubs her shoes against the asphalt and bursts out: - There’s something you ought to tell me. Tell me –

Bartimaeus assumes en expression of theatrical wonder mixed with angelic innocence that doesn’t fool Queezle: she knows him well. She decides to take him by exasperation; she clings to his sleeve and sing-songs: - Teeeel meee, come oooon... –

\- My dear Queezle, you’re talking with the exasperation master. And, sorry to say this, but the apprentice didn’t outdo the master yet. That said, you imagine things, Queezle –

\- It’s not true – she grumbles – Tell me -.

Bartimaeus glances at the building in front of them and shakes his head. – After. We’re late –

He pushes her inside, straight shouldered, casual and light, but unmoved looking.

They deliver the stuff without any hitches and strangely Bartimaeus spares the usual jokes, and then he almost drags her in their box-room.

They curls up in the farthest place from the door, that is already a challenge in itself given the not-bigness of the room, and Bartimaeus grabs her by the shoulders. – I don’t know how to say it, Queez. But I think that soon... you’re going away – Queezle stares at him without understanding. – Madame is taking you away, I heard them speak –

Terror paralyzes her. She knows what happens at Madame’s, she’s not stupid. The tears she didn’t cry that afternoon and all the previous years bursts out; Bartimaeus hurries to put a hand on her mouth to not make noise. – I wanted you to know earlier... –

\- I’m not going – Queezle hiccups behind his hand. – I’d rather kill myself –

\- Don’t say rubbish. You’re though, Queezle, you’ll get through it –

Queezle stares at him: she doesn’t want to abandon him and doesn’t want him to abandon her. So, she wipes away her tears and asks him: - Why don’t we leave? –

 

Queezle loves Prague. She’s never stopped to think about this, because a twelve-years-old shouldn’t think something like that and especially a twelve-years-old in her condition. But now that she’s getting ready to leave it, she realizes to have grown fond of it, and that she’ll miss it. If they come out alive. She’s not afraid, not very, at least; Bartimaeus doesn’t show his feelings, he never does, he prefers hiding under teasing and biting jokes. Maybe he’s a little scared too. After all, at the beginning, he didn’t even want to leave.


	2. II Part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where two kids decide to run away and travel for the world (more or less)

It wasn’t like I was afraid: I was simply realistic. How many probabilities there were that two kids on their own (as much one of them gifted with bright smartness, and the other one wasn’t bad too) could leave Prague and head towards a still unknown locality? Very few, to be optimistic.

To being honest, I was an expert of illegal trips, even if at that time I was more sent on a ship than other and squeezed in a hold together with a group of whining kids.[1] Everything was been organized by shady characters who limited their selves to collect me, collect the cash from my mother and in the end deliver me to other shady characters in a country where was spoken a ridiculous language.

Naturally, this was a very different situation. To begin with, here was involved Queezle too, not just yours truly. Of course, if there wouldn’t have been her, escaping wouldn’t ever come to the anteroom of my brain. It’s not I was enjoying, eh, being beaten up one day and the other too and risking the reformatory, but fair enough. I had nothing and no one in this world, I took what was offered.

Well, now I had Queezle, even if someone could object that a cheeky twelve-years-old wasn’t this great profit. I was the one who took her under my wing, I admit it, but what else was I supposed to do? Neither I am so much cynical to leave a little girl on her own in that kind of situation. And yes, so we was escaping essentially for her.[2] 

At the beginning, I tried to make her reflect: how could we leave like this, without money, without anything? It was madness.

On the other hand, though, I didn’t like leaving Queezle to her destiny. She was my friend, after all, and as much I was selfish, I cared about her. To be brief, I convinced myself. It didn’t take long: the call of freedom has ever been irresistible to me, if it succeeds to get ahead of the instinct of self-preservation. I wouldn’t have died for freedom (I like life a lot, thank you very much) but I’ve never been one that adapt himself to the yoke, as much once in a while I had felt a little resigned.

Our biggest problem was _how_ leave Prague, rather, the Czech Republic, if we wanted to do the things well. I wasn’t afraid they’d follow us or other: all things considered we were just two little brats and we wouldn’t bring with us more than some shrapnel. It was our settlement, that is.

One night, during one of our strolls, we simply didn’t come back. I had succeeded to nick a pair of wallets from our (former) employers, the dullest ones in circulation[3], we had our clasp knives and the clothes we wore. The end.

The plan was jumping on a train, obviously without ticket, choosing at random between the departures. If I could have, I’d have come gladly back home, in Iran, or anyway in that zone. I’ve never liked cities, as much Prague is an exception: it has its melancholic beauty that makes me esteem it. Much better than the Londoner hole, no doubts about it. Anyway, more than distance, that part of world was blocked to us for the usual human little problem of war, so we headed towards west.

If you had any doubts that two minors could travel for months (rather, years) in Europe without being arrested or other, well, here I am. I’m not saying it was easy: most of times we slept on trains and jumped off as soon as we smelled ticket inspectors, we filched here and there and tried to absolutely not draw attention. About languages, I’ve always been very versatile and moreover, words is decisively my field.

Queezle and I wandered far and wide, and it’s incredible how little people sometimes notice two kids in big cities, if they are dressed decently and strike as they’d be very self-confident.

One time, we must be in Italy, poor Queezle was really exhausted. It has been ages since we slept on a vaguely soft surface, to not talking about a shower. So, we couldn’t make it anymore and at that point a modest but genial idea came to my mind: sneaking inside a hotel, nicking a key and enjoying a bed and hot water.

Pointless looking sceptical: it worked perfectly. The trick was choosing something not too luxurious, to not have porters and concierges nosing around, but an informal little hotel, with few people around. Briefly: we crept in a room and at last we were able to see again a real bathroom with a real toilet. It was a relief, really.

While Queezle singed something in Czech to herself under the shower, I did a short inspection of the luggage and decided that our unaware hosts (a couple probably) wouldn’t be offended if we had taken advantage of their clothes too.

I sprawled on the bed with my new Led Zeppelin t-shirt and I admit I fell asleep like a dead.

I was woken up by a little kind shake; it was Queezle, hair down and flyaway and her cheek pillow-crinkled. Before I could ask her what the hell was happening, outside the door were heard confused voices and agitated steps.

\- They’re back – whispered Queezle, who was wearing a big hoodie as a dress.

I hissed a curse and jumped out the bed, without really knowing what to do, actually. Well, we couldn’t jump out the window, could we? But neither wait quietly in the middle of the room that our guests would enter, freak out and call the police and welfare.

Queezle was staring at me; I stared at her and the door opened wide.

Three or four adults scrutinized us, turned to stone.

\- Run! –

Queezle flew before me, squeezing herself between two prominent bellies and I followed her, hurling some jab as bonus. We rushed to the road and only after many blocks we stopped. We had developed a good resistance, nothing to say about it.

 

This was our life. Irregular, rambling, as ragged kids. But funny it was, even when we found ourselves with an empty stomach and aching feet. We were like suspended in an alternative dimension, me and Queezle, and that was enough; and for a long time it was like this.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1Of course, at that time I was a kid too, but not a whining one. Obviously. I’ve always despised the useless tears, especially if produced by females. They make me feel uneasy, as if I’d have made them cry. [ [return to text](%E2%80%9C#return1%E2%80%9D) ]
> 
> 2Not _only_ for her, it’s clear. I’m just saying that, had it been for me, I’d have waited still some years, at least until I’d have become tall enough to pass for a twenty-years-old. That, curiously, will have happened in the following three months [ [return to text](%E2%80%9C#return2%E2%80%9D) ]
> 
> 3They were a pair, not more. After all, we weren’t in a Disney movie: for one idiot, there were at least two with a perfectly functioning brain and a pair of hands as shovels. [ [return to text](%E2%80%9C#return3%E2%80%9D) ]

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is part of Queezle and Bart's backstory: they're street children in Prague, that just try to survive. And maybe be happy?


End file.
